


Mors Tua, Vita Mea

by strawberryangyangs



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gang World, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mafia NCT, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28790910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryangyangs/pseuds/strawberryangyangs
Summary: There is something about the boy with a gun strapped to the waistband of his jeans—something all at once terrifying and thrilling. But Haechan has always been one for games, so play he will.That is, until he plays right into the hands of Mark Lee and his gang.Haechan's only order was to retrieve the boy, alive, but unconscious, and with no requests to leave him bodily unharmed. It should have been a fairly simple run, but thinking so was Haechan's first mistake, and now, with his own knife turned against him, in the hand of none other than NCT's notorious caporegime, he finds truth to the rumours associated with Mark Lee's name.Luckily, the rumours about Haechan are just as veracious.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny, Dong Si Cheng | WinWin/Nakamoto Yuta, Jung Sungchan/Osaki Shotaro, Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Lee Taeyong, Kim Jungwoo/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas, Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee, Lee Jeno/Na Jaemin, Park Jisung/Zhong Chen Le, Wong Kun Hang | Hendery/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 20
Kudos: 157





	1. Prologue

Haechan felt the bass thrum under the soles of his feet, a sort of spark igniting at his heels and travelling all the way up to his chest, and from there, to his heart, which beat ferociously in competition with the pounding of his head. He was never one to admit to his wrongs, always the first to let slip an excuse for his misdeeds before the misdeed even acknowledged, but Haechan supposed there was no other self he could pin the blame on for his ghastly headache, and so he cursed his low tolerance and lack of self-restraint, and brought the red solo cup to his lips once more. The liquid burned on its way down his throat. 

Sadly, but unsurprisingly, the rest of Haechan’s body had not caught up to the speed with which his head had spiralled into physically aching pain, and so he would have to fake it. Not so sadly, Haechan knew himself to be a superb actor. 

Trudging his way through the swarms of sweaty bodies, Haechan feigned a look of utter inebriation, swaying on his feet and knocking arms with anyone who ventured the boundaries into his bubble of personal space—basically every damned person in attendance at the college party—and sought out his target. 

Haechan must confess, he quite enjoyed these kinds of scenes. There was something about the mass of bodies, packed all too tightly in a space inadequate for such a holding, and the taste of cheap liquor on his tongue, disgusting but so _so_ good, and the god awful music playing at volumes that could wake the dead, and the idea of sacrificing one’s body to the mist—drugs, simply put, and the thrill of possibly walking in on an indecent exhibit of flesh on flesh, and- _oh_ , there was an elbow jammed into Haechan’s stomach. He flopped onto the floor. 

“My bad! Are you okay?” The concern came immediately, and then there were hands grabbing Haechan by the arms. He almost tugged out of their hold, prepared to reach under his shirt and to the knife strapped to his waist—out of instinct, of course. He had no qualms about this stranger. 

But as he was hauled to his feet and their face came into view, Haechan found that, yes, he indeed _did_ have some qualms about this stranger. 

“Are you okay?” The boy asked again. His jaw was clenched, not out of anger it seemed, but worry. Strands of blue hair fell into his eyes, but unlike the photo Haechan had been given of him, they were not hardened into a cold gaze that could freeze over all of Earth’s deserts. If anything, his eyes almost shined with a sort of innocence. 

But Haechan knew better than to assume based off of appearance, and so he remained on alert, his mind ringing alarm bells, and whirring sirens, and barking dogs, forming a cacophony worse than the atrocious rap music blaring from the speakers. 

“I’m okay,” then remembering his act of intoxication, “you go on ahead.” Haechan waved his hand in a sort of shooing gesture, and then giggled at himself. 

The male simply gave him a thumbs up before leaving him be. As soon as he had his back turned to Haechan, he stopped giggling and dropped his smile, along with his empty cup. 

He racked his brain for a name to match to the boy’s face, mentally flicking through the pages of photos and brief descriptions of each gang member. _Jeno_ , he remembered. _Lee Jeno_. Not quite who he was looking for, but an acquaintance nonetheless, and if he too was at this party, then that meant he might lead Haechan to his target. He followed the head of blue hair making its way through the crowd. 

Haechan watched as Jeno turned into a hallway, stopping in front of a door to give it a single knock before entering. He waited some minutes, which for a person as impatient as himself, felt like much _much_ longer, and so he prepared himself for a nap. Slumped against the wall with his eyes closed, he almost missed the soft sound of a door clicking shut. Haechan jolted upright and moved himself to a darkened corner. He crouched down behind a tall potted plant, the kind that grew humongous leaves and required more water than a dip in your bathtub would. 

Jeno ambled down the hallway, and in mere seconds, he had crossed the threshold into the chaos that was college revelry, leaving behind the momentary calm that came with the privacy of a closed door. 

Haechan stood and swiftly made for the room Jeno had entered and exited. Now that he was closer, he could faintly make out the sounds of what seemed like shameless indulgence coming from the one beside it, but when he strained to listen for any sound coming from the intended room, Haechan was met with silence. Ever so slowly, he turned the doorknob. 

Behind the door lay a room with a balcony, and on that balcony stood a blond-haired boy, shoulders hunched and elbows resting on the railing. 

_Target acquired._

Haechan smiled a devilish smile, and catapulted himself onto the bed. The impact of his body against the mattress slammed the bedframe into the wall. 

Faster than a whip, the boy turned his head and squinted into the darkened room, lit only by the moonlight pouring in through the balcony’s open doors. His hand shot to the waistband of his jeans. 

The source of the noise smooshed his face into the pillow under his head, the fabric smelling of laundry detergent and a hint of musk. Haechan let out a content sigh. 

“Uh, this room is taken,” the boy said, crossing his room to the mess of sprawled limbs on his bed. 

Haechan feigned surprise and shot up, his hand clutching his head. “Oh fuck! I thought this room was empty, my bad. I just have a killer headache and was looking for a place to rest. Sorry, I’ll just-.” He stood and stumbled over his feet. The boy was quick to catch him. 

“No, no, it’s okay. You can stay here until you sober up a bit.” 

“No, really, I don’t wanna invade your space.” 

“It’s okay, really,” the boy smiled, and though the moon was high in the sky, and the sky itself a blanket of darkness, he could’ve sworn there were birds chirping somewhere in the distance. “I could use some company.” 

If it were any other situation, Haechan would have offered the boy his house, his hand in marriage, and his firstborn, but alas, he had been sent to retrieve the boy, alive, but unconscious, and with no orders to leave him bodily unharmed. 

He doubted this was an ideal first meeting for the beginnings of a grand romantic affair. 

“Thank you,” Haechan said, and lowered himself onto the bed. A hush descended upon the room, not necessarily awkward, but definitely uncomfortable, and if there was one thing Haechan was absolutely incapable of, it would be keeping his mouth shut. “No friends, huh?” 

It was almost comical how fast the boy’s expression turned unimpressed. For a moment, Haechan thought he might have actually offended him—as he so often did most people—but then he laughed, and shifted his body to lean against the wall so that he was in Haechan’s direct line of sight. His eyes sparkled with mirth. 

“Not my party.” 

“I doubt your roommate would mind.” 

“Not my scene,” he shrugged, “don’t really like big crowds.” 

“So you’ve decided to hide out here?”

“Well it was either this or smoke weed in my bathtub, but, you know,” the boy gestured vaguely to the wall opposite him. 

Haechan scrunched his nose. “You’re gonna have to shower in there.” 

“And brush my teeth,” he sighed, and then paused for a moment, seeming to contemplate the state of his bathroom. Haechan almost laughed as the male visibly blanched, shaking his head as if to rid himself of such intrusive thoughts. 

“Just get your roommate to deal with it in the morning. His party, his mess.”

“I guess,” the boy said, his words trailing off into silence. Then, he looked Haechan up and down, not appreciatively, but as though he were scrutinising him. Haechan tried not to squirm under his stare. “Are you a new friend of Donghyun? I don’t think I’ve seen you at any of his parties before.” 

He let out a breath. Assuming Donghyun was the boy’s roommate, Haechan nodded before launching into his carefully crafted story involving a shared class, under an unspecified major, and a group project. There was no need to fret over the details of his story—Haechan knew for a fact that the boy did not attend college. 

“That’s cool. You’ll be around more often then?” 

Haechan smiled, and marvelled at the thrill of secrecy; of speaking in riddles and unbidden truths. “Oh, definitely. We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, I’m hoping.” 

The boy smiled, “hopefully,” and brought a cigarette to his lips. With his eyes trained on Haechan, he whipped out a lighter from his pocket, and set fire to the garden growing in his lungs. “Follow me to the balcony?” 

Haechan followed. 

Standing before the night like this, bathed in moonlight, the blond-haired male gave truth to the rumours attached to his name. They spoke of his ruthlessness, of his calm and cunning, and of the number on his shoulders, only increasing so long as he himself remained body and soul, not just body. 

Haechan understood the fear that coursed through the veins of those on opposite ends to the boy and his gang, but probably for different reason than fear itself. Like this, with his eyes wide and a reflection of the heavens above, the world was his to take. And he _would_ take, until every star was robbed from the night sky, and only darkness remained. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” The boy asked. 

“Very.”

Haechan wasn’t talking about the stars. 

He studied the blond’s face, and wondered what it would be like to trace the sharp angle of his cheekbone with the pad of his finger. And then he wondered what it would be like to make him bleed; to carve a scarlet line into the milky white of his skin. 

Haechan reached under his shirt. 

His fingers grasped at an empty sheath. 

“Looking for this?” The boy held Haehchan’s knife by the blade, fingers dangling the weapon over the railing. The moonlight reflected off the knife’s surface. 

Haechan recalled his little trip by the bed, and the arm that had wrapped around his waist to set him right. 

_Oh, how he had been deceived._

Tilting his head to the side, the glint of light shone directly upon the boy’s face. His smile was nefarious. “Nice to meet you, Lee Haechan.” 

Haechan’s heart raced, not out of fear, but anticipation. The promise of violence hung thick in the air, and like a drowning man, he was eager for breath. 

His grand ploy had been thwarted, but if anything, Haechan was more concerned for his wounded pride. The boy must have thought this would unnerve him, have him on his knees praying to a god he had no faith in. Too bad Haechan had already seen heaven, and knew that it rested in the eyes of the devil. 

“Well played, Mark Lee.” 

On the other side of the door, the sound of a scream pierced through the blaring music, and a gunshot rang.


	2. Chapter 2

It was barely two in the afternoon when Mark found himself plodding into the club. He considered the sign that read ‘NeoCity,’ and made a mental note to bring it up with Johnny later—the neon green sign really was a little tacky. 

A sort of serene air greeted him upon entering, given that there were close to no guests in attendance. But he knew once the night hours approached, the club would be far from calm, becoming a place of untamed debauchery, and certainly—as Jaemin would say—no place that required Jisung’s presence. 

Mark wove his way through the empty tables, avoiding chair legs and the occasional potted plants Doyoung had insisted on purchasing to uplift the, quote-unquote, _ambience_ , and all but threw himself at the bar. From behind the counter, Winwin scoffed. 

“Really? It’s only two.” 

“I’m aware, thanks.” Mark let his hand fall to the table with a thud, palm face up. 

“Seriously?” Winwin questioned, his eyebrows almost disappearing behind the curtain of hair against his forehead. 

Mark only nodded. 

He watched with half-lidded eyes as Winwin poured a shot of some orange-tinted liquid, and stuck his hand out to catch the glass as it came sliding across the counter. 

“What is it?”

Winwin shrugged, “does it matter?”

Mark downed the shot, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Going to see the boss?” Winwin picked up a rag and swept the counter clean, ridding its surface of any spilt liquor. He was very particular about the bar, and would not settle unless the dark stone shined with his reflection staring back at him. 

“With nothing to update him on.” 

Winwin stopped his cleaning, leaving the rag in a clump as he turned to give Mark his full attention. “Still no leads on him?” 

The _him_ in question was none other than Lee Haechan, the boy who had come to Mark’s apartment to attend his roommate’s party, and had tried to stab him in the comforts of his own bedroom. The boy was audacious, and Mark could not deny that he was also very pretty, and so, as it goes, Mark was wholly invested. The only problem being that he hadn’t seen Haechan since the night of the party. 

The night of which a person was shot in his living room. 

He had been too busy calling emergency services—which in Mark’s dictionary meant Taeil—consoling the masses of terrified, and might he add, _drunk_ college students, and herding people through the door in an attempt to get them all to leave, all while his roommate freaked out in the corner, to notice Haechan making his escape. 

Whether the shot was of Haechan’s doing, or it was simply incredible timing, Mark wasn’t sure. Though, he hoped not for the latter, because that would mean yet another hit to be added to his list, and he wasn’t in the mood for murder today, or anytime soon, he’d say—the last time had ended with a bright red stain on his favourite dress shirt, and it hadn’t been the most pleasant situation attempting to find an excuse for the bloodied fabric after Donghyun stumbled upon it in the laundry. 

“No, and that serves as a problem because he’s still out there, and he knows where I live.”

“Even if you moved, he’d probably find you again. This is Lee Haechan we’re talking about.” 

Mark had heard the rumours, of the young criminal unaffiliated with any gang, but if called upon and for the right price, would fulfil whatever bidding. There was a reason everyone with ties to the circle knew of Haechan, and it was because he never failed to get the job done. He was sly, and he was clever, and since he belonged to no gang, there was no threat that the information he’d take in would reach enemy ears—unless, of course, you were willing to pay for it. 

“If I were you,” Winwin started, picking up the discarded rag, “I would be worrying about the person who hired Haechan to come after you,” then he was moving towards the far end of the bar, where a middle-aged man had sat himself down, hand raised in beckoning for his service. 

Mark sighed before sluggishly rising from his seat. He nodded once at Winwin, “I’ll see you,” and made for the staff doors. His friend only hummed in acknowledgment. 

Behind the staff doors lay an empty stretch of velvet hallway—empty, save for the paintings that hung from the walls, and of course, an assortment of potted plants. Mark’s shoes seemed to almost sink into the plush carpet, leaving indentations of his footfalls, and devouring the sound of what would have otherwise been squeaky sneakers against marble flooring. 

The paintings adorning the walls were a mixture of Ten and Taeyong’s favourites, acquired after some business called for a trip to Paris. What exactly the _business_ in question was, Mark wasn’t sure, but it had resulted in a broken collarbone and a really horrendous hair-dye job. 

Mark fetched his lighter from his pocket. He brought it up to eye-level, watching as the flame sprung to life, and died just as fast. All it took was the weight of his thumb, and Mark could set fire to heaven itself if he wished. 

“Will you stop that!” A hand came out to swipe at his lighter. Doyoung glared at him from over a box of files. “One wrong move and the building goes up in flames.” 

“You’re only worried about the plants.”

“Of course I’m worried about the plants.” 

Mark sighed, but reached for the box in Doyoung’s arms. “To the boss?” 

Doyoung nodded, “you’re going to see him now?”

The hallway had opened up to a large lounge room, a kitchen on one end and a meeting room on the other. The club was only the gang’s business front, and though all the members prided themselves on it alike, the building behind it was where they spent most of their time. This was where mission briefings were held, the medical centre was located, and even where some of them resided. This building was the core of NCT, and Mark felt more at home here than he did in the two-bedroom apartment he shared with Donghyun. 

Mark climbed the stairs two at a time, Doyoung following behind him. “He called me in this morning, something about going through some files,” he tilted his head towards the box in his arms, “should be nothing.” 

“Nothing as in nothing, or nothing as in this is about Lee Haechan?”

Mark stopped in front of the boss’ office, hand latched onto the golden doorknob. He gave Doyoung a pointed look before uttering, “goodbye,” and entering the room. He closed the door just in time to drown out the sound of Doyoung’s nagging. 

“No knock?” 

Mark scrunched his nose, turning to greet the boss with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.” 

Taeyong only laughed. “Come sit.” 

He placed the box onto Taeyong’s desk before pulling out the uncomfortable leather chair he had become accustomed to, seeing as he found himself seated in it more often times than not. 

“What are the files for?” Mark asked as Taeyong stood to sift through them. The silver-haired male only hummed in reply as his fingers plucked through the manila folders, searching for a name, it seemed. 

His fingers stilled in their search a moment later, sweeping out a file which, Mark supposed, was the answer to his question. “Lee Haechan’s file.” 

Mark was out of his seat in less than a second, practically snatching the folder from Taeyong’s hands. He hastily opened the file, hoping for an address, or a phone number, or even a recent photo that would help to surmise his whereabouts—really, anything that would provide him with a possible lead. But all that laid inside was a single document. 

The sheet of paper listed all of Haechan’s details, ranging from his birth name to his date of birth, to his place of birth, the schools he attended before dropping out at the age of seventeen, and even his list of allergies—all very interesting, but utterly useless. 

“There’s nothing here.” 

Taeyong nodded, “I know.” He took the file from Mark’s hands and slid it back into the box. “This was all the information we had on him.” 

“I haven’t found anything either. No leads on where he might be, or if he was responsible for the gunshot.”

“Do you think he was?”

“He couldn’t have made the shot, and as far as I know, he works alone,” Mark shrugged, “probably not.”

“That’s what I was thinking as well, which is why I say we stop looking for him.” 

Mark blinked, “we do?”

Taeyong leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped together under his chin. “It’s been almost a week since that night. If he meant to come after you again, he would’ve already.” 

“We don’t know that for sure though, what if he’s waiting?” 

“On what?” Taeyong raised a brow, “Orders?”

Mark remained silent. 

“Haechan was paid to retrieve you. If he meant to attempt a second time, he would've come for you as soon as possible. I’m guessing that the transaction fell through, and his hirers are no longer in need of his service.”

“So it’s not Haechan we should be looking for, it’s whoever paid him?”

Taeyong’s eyes turned a vicious shade of darkness, his voice lowering to a whispered hush, “someone is after you, Mark, and this isn’t some meagre threat of a hit. Whoever it is, they want you _alive_ , and you only ever want someone alive if you need them to speak,” then he leant back in his chair, a teasing smile gracing his features, “but, of course, you’re free to go after Haechan in your own time.” And just like that, Taeyong had turned from Mark’s boss, to just another one of his close friends. 

He coughed, “we’ll see.” 

Mark thanked whatever higher power chose exactly then to call for an interruption, bringing Taeyong’s attention away from his abashed demeanour, and to whoever stood outside wrapping their knuckles against his door. Jaehyun stuck his head into the office. 

“Busy?” 

Taeyong shook his head, “never for you. Come in.” 

“And that,” Mark said, pushing away from the desk and rising from his seat, “is my queue to leave.” 

Jaehyun ruffled Mark’s hair on his way out, and called for him to close the door. Mark would have done so anyway, without direct—nobody needed to stumble upon whatever it was Taeyong and Jaehyun planned to do within the confines of the office. 

Though, he couldn’t say the same for the couple laid out on the sofa in the lounge room. 

“Please, guys, some common decency would be nice.” 

Ten detached himself from Johnny, rolling his eyes so hard it seemed as though they’d fall out of their sockets with the strain. “You’re just bitter because nobody wants your single ass.” 

From the kitchen, Doyoung had the gall to laugh. 

“I don’t know why you’re laughing, you’re just as bad,” Ten pointed at Doyoung, “maybe even worse.” 

Doyoung set the spatula in his hand onto the counter with an echoing slam. “Now you listen here, you little shit-.” 

“You don’t get a say in this, especially not after bringing that grinch to last week’s dinner.”

“He wasn’t that bad.” 

“I beg your pardon? He had a rat tail!” 

“Lord, save me,” Johnny muttered, hands clasped together in prayer. 

Mark was out the door the next second, escaping the brawl that would soon unfold on Taeyong’s brand new cashmere rug—he’d rather not play witness to his friends’ impending demises.

* * *

In his line of work, Mark had mastered the art of expecting the unexpected. Whether it be a bugged room, or a sudden ambush, or a sniper hanging from the rooftops above, waiting to take him out, Mark had grown a sort of sixth sense to these kinds of surprises. 

So as he stood outside his apartment, and his sixth sense started whirring sirens at the back of his mind, Mark instinctively reached for the gun strapped to his waistband. With one hand on the weapon hidden under his hoodie, he slowly turned the doorknob with his other. He pushed the door open in increments, on alert for any sign of trouble. Then, all at once, he slammed it open. 

What he didn’t expect, was to find trouble sitting on his sofa, chatting animatedly with Donghyun. 

“Mark! You’re back!” Donghyun waved in greeting, then gestured to the person sitting beside him. “Look who’s here!” 

Haechan winked, a sinister smile etched onto the planes of his face. “Hello, Mark Lee.” 

Donghyun snorted, “it’s so weird how you call him by his full name. I thought you guys were friends?” 

“We are. I guess it’s just become a habit to address him that way.” 

Mark could only stare at the scene before him, more baffled than he would like to admit. “You know each other?” 

His roommate shook his head, “nah, we just met today. Haechan said he’d come to visit you but you weren’t home yet so,” Donghyun shrugged, “I thought I’d keep him company.”

“Is that so?” Mark said, barely managing to speak the words between gritted teeth. Now that the initial shock had worn off, and anger had started to seep its way into the crevices of his bones, Mark had to physically hold himself back from whipping out his gun and shooting Haechan on the spot, right then and there. 

He mentally schooled himself, and practiced the breathing exercises Jungwoo had taught him. _In one two three, out one two three…_

“I guess I’ll leave you guys to it,” Donghyun said, clapping his hands together before rising from the sofa. Mark couldn’t believe how utterly dense his roommate was. Anyone could tell that Mark and Haechan definitely _weren’t_ friends from the way they were glaring holes into each other’s foreheads. “Oh, one more thing,” Donghyun said, stopping midway to his bedroom. “I’m moving out.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I guess, you know, with what happened the other night, and the uh-,” Donghyun winced, “dead body.” 

From his corner of the sofa, Haechan let out a sound of amusement.

Mark cleared his throat, “oh yeah. Yeah, I get what you mean.” 

“It was kinda a lot, I guess...” Donghyun trailed off into silence, before clapping his hands together again, and allowing a large smile to grace his features. “But it’s okay! I’ve already found someone who’s willing to move in, so you don’t have to pay full rent!”

Mark felt his heart drop. 

“Who?” And though he was asking Donghyun, Mark was staring right at the boy whose presence seemed to kindle a fire in his chest. 

Haechan beamed, “you’re looking at him.”


	3. Chapter 3

Contrary to popular belief, Haechan _is_ self-aware. And so, he knows full well that he tends to have a flair for the dramatic. Haechan holds this uncommon aptitude for making ordinary situations seem like stage-three state emergencies, and he loves it. 

But there is no exaggeration in his present circumstance, only pure theatric. Because with a gun levelled at his head, in the hand of NCT’s notorious caporegime, only one word comes to mind with regards to the scene before him, and that word is none other than _dramatic_. 

“Move, and I’ll shoot you.” 

“Now, now,” Haechan raised his hands in a placating manner, attempting to allay the wielder’s wrath, “let’s not be hasty.” 

Mark regarded Haechan lazily, as if he was just another minor inconvenience the gang member had to deal with—Haechan supposed he probably _was_. But despite that, Mark’s grip on his gun was firm, and his finger lay snug on top of the trigger. His wrist was raised just the slightest, but that small incline would be enough, because Haechan knew that if Mark chose to shoot, the bullet would launch straight into his head. The boy was no amateur, but Haechan had expected nothing less from Mark Lee. 

“What are you doing here?”

“What? No hello? No how are you?”

The gang member remained unimpressed, his jaw clenched in irritation. “Why are you here?” 

“I’ll answer any questions you have once you put the gun down.” 

Mark did not put the gun down. 

Haechan huffed, “very hospitable, you are.” 

Just then, the door to Donghyun’s room opened. Mark swiftly stashed his gun back under his hoodie; it was there one second and gone the next. 

Donghyun smiled heartily, unaware of the tension laid thick upon the room. “Sorry, I’m just going to take a shower.” 

“No, no. You’re quite alright.” 

The boy ambled over to the bathroom, and less than a minute later, the sound of a running shower echoed throughout the apartment. 

Mark sighed, but did not move to retrieve his gun. Instead, he surveyed Haechan, his eyes narrowed into slits. “Look, I won’t shoot you, not unless you give me a reason to.”

“Why, that’s so kind of you, sir-.” 

“But,” Mark interrupted, and before Haechan knew what was happening, the boy had him backed up against the sofa cushions, his own knife held to his throat. “I’m gonna need you to answer some questions.”

Haechan lowered his voice to a whisper, “you won’t stab me.” If anyone were to walk in on them, it’d seem as though he was sharing a secret with the gang member—a saccharine confession uttered under his breath, meant only for their ears. “You wouldn’t risk causing unnecessary dispute between your gang and those who have need for my services. Especially not now, with a target on your back.”

Mark dug the knife deeper against the skin of Haechan’s neck. The cold metal stung against his warm flesh. 

“I know things,” Haechan continued, “and sending me to my death means that information goes to the grave as well. But there is no guarantee that a desperate man will keep his silence, and if I don’t, that burden falls on you.” 

Mark’s eyes burned pitch black, a stark contrast to the shining orbs he’d seen that night, under the stars. Haechan couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of him in such a state—dishevelled and angry, and a force to be reckoned with. Mark’s aura weighed so heavily upon him that he thought he might die of asphyxiation. Haechan wondered if he stuck his tongue out, and licked a stripe against the gang member’s skin, the pungent taste of death would linger on his tongue. 

“I’m willing to accept that burden.”

Haechan nodded then, and quirked his lips into a smile that could raise hell. “Ask me, then.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to see how you were doing.”

“Why?” 

“They told me they were no longer in need of my services, so I assumed they’d found a way to deal with you themselves,” Haechan shrugged, “wanted to see if you were dead.”

“Whose _they?_ ”

“Oh, Mark, you know I never kiss and tell.” 

The knife pierced through a slither of skin, and small beads of blood welled at the opening. A thin stream of crimson trickled down Haechan’s neck. 

“Who hired you?”

“I don’t know.” 

“I’m sorry?”

“I said,” Haechan started, his tone levelled, and seeming not at all affected by the blood spilling from the skin of his throat. “I don’t know.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want. But consider that I never speak of my business, so if I truly did know, I wouldn’t tell you. The only reason I’m being honest now is because I have nothing to offer you.” 

“Then how did you receive orders to come after me?”

“Through a letter. Believe it or not, people still script messages on paper. There were no details as to who might’ve sent it, but the request was clear, and there was an address for me to come to if I were to accept. I thought once I arrived, someone would be waiting for me, but it was at a cafe, and a barista approached me with an envelope containing my payment.”

“And after you failed?” 

Haechan let out a sound of indignation, “I didn’t fail, I was merely set-back.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. 

“But anyways,” he began again, ignoring the small hint of amusement that graced the caporegime’s features. “I was planning on coming after you the next day, but then I received a letter in the morning saying I didn’t need to, and that I could keep the cash.” 

“Isn’t that nice,” Mark’s tone oozed hostility, “remission.” 

Haechan shook his head, “I wouldn’t say so. Nothing ever comes for free in the circle. You should know that better than anyone else.” 

Judging by the small twitch of his hand, Haechan garnered he did. 

They lapsed into silence, the only sounds coming from the running shower, and Donghyun’s occasional humming. It was still, too still. But for once, Haechan didn’t open his mouth to break it. 

Haechan felt as though Mark was undressing his soul, laying him bare and vulnerable for the world to see. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Because he saw, now, that the only thing standing between him and the gateway to heaven was a mere exhalation. 

If this was how dying felt, then Haechan thought he wouldn’t be so opposed to succumbing to it.

“You didn’t come to see if I was still alive,” Mark said, dragging the knife against the underside of Haechan’s jaw, “you’re here because you need protection; you’re here because you’re scared.” 

Haechan narrowed his eyes, “I don’t _need_ anything from you.” 

“And yet, here you are.” 

Scared was a bit of a stretch. Haechan was slightly bothered, distressed, if you will, that is all.  
Because it had not occurred to him until he received the second letter, that whoever sent it knew exactly where to find him, and at what time. 

Whenever someone required his service, they would make a call to his number—not Haechan’s personal, obviously, but one that everyone knew of, and was passed around within the circle. He never gave out an address because he was constantly moving, and he was constantly moving because he didn’t want to be found. But, somehow, whoever sent the letter knew where he’d be the first time they’d written to him, and by the time he received the second, and Haechan had already moved, they _still_ knew where to find him. 

Haechan needed to find out who this person was, and what better way than to stick close with Mark Lee? He was their target, anyway. 

Mark removed the knife from under Haechan’s jaw, and set it on the coffee table. “You can have your knife back.” 

“Thanks,” Haechan drawled, sarcastically. 

“Well then,” Mark nodded at Haechan, two of his fingers coming up to tap the side of his forehead, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, roommate.”

He watched as Mark retreated into his room, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Finally, Haechan inhaled, and exhaled, and inhaled, and exhaled.


	4. Chapter 4

“Pardon my language, but what the fuck did you just say?” 

Mark cringed, and snuck a glance around the room to make sure Jaemin was, indeed, absent. 

“Jisung, language.”

“I said pardon!” The young boy quivered with indignation, his hands coming to rest on his hips. “You’re trying to change the subject.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“What’s not that big of a deal?” Yuta entered the kitchen, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl and seating himself on one of the island’s stools. He leant forward, across from the other two, and listened in, successfully inserting himself into the conversation. 

Jisung pointed an accusing finger at Mark, “he’s fraternising with the enemy!” 

Yuta remained indifferent, focused on peeling his banana. “The enemy?” 

The squelching sound of sweaty skin against marble ricocheted off the kitchen walls. Jisung had stood to his full height, palms red from slapping the surface of the counter with such force. “He’s sharing an apartment with Lee Haechan!” 

Yuta choked on his banana. 

“Yeah! That’s what I thought!” 

The sound of a door slamming open, followed by speedy footfalls, pattered above them. Mark groaned. 

“You’re roommates with Haechan?!” Jungwoo’s voice travelled down from the second-floor landing, his body dangling over the railing. 

As soon as Yuta stopped choking, he pounced on Mark. “I expected this behaviour from Doyoung, maybe. But you?” 

“Hey!” And suddenly, there Doyoung was, pulling a drawer open to retrieve a fork, and attempting to gouge Yuta’s eyeballs out with it. “Are you calling me a hoe?!”

“Please! Guys! Let me explain!” 

“Do you know how dangerous he is!” Jungwoo had come down to the first floor, and as soon as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen, his hands were grabbing Mark by the shoulders, attempting to physically shake some sense into him. “Boy, you better sleep with one eye open-.” 

The subtle shift that came with an additional presence—recognition attributed to what Mark liked to call his _seventh_ sense—within the room distracted him from Jungwoo’s endless tirade. Over the taller boy’s shoulder, Mark watched as Ten waltzed into the chaos, without a care for what the scene might insinuate, and stretched an arm up to the cabinets above the stove. When he found that he couldn’t reach the contents within, even when stood on his tiptoes, the assassin finally acknowledged everyone else in the room. “Someone wanna get me that ramen packet way at the back?”

Jisung marched over, huffing and puffing with every stomp of his feet. He reached for the packet and dumped it into Ten’s hands. 

Then, he gestured wildly in Mark’s direction, “he’s going to be living with Lee Haechan!” 

Ten was silent for a moment, eyes flitting from Mark, to Jisung, to Mark, and back to Jisung. Then he shrugged, “cool.” 

Everyone else, aside from Mark, was evidently gobsmacked. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” 

The assassin shrugged, “Mark could use some dick.” 

“Okay, no.” Mark pushed away from the kitchen counter, meaning to exit the conversation before any blood was spilt, but Jungwoo shoved him back, getting up in his personal space and grabbing the sides of his face. 

“Lee Haechan is evil!” 

Mark wiped a hand across his face, ridding his skin of Jungwoo’s spit. “You guys are being dramatic.” 

The room descended into bedlam, part two. 

And then, just like the saviour Mark had always known him to be, Taeyong appeared in the kitchen’s doorway. With a single clap of his hands, everyone quietened, their attention immediately taken ahold by the boss’ eminent aura. 

“Leave the boy alone.” 

Doyoung’s eyes widened, considering Taeyong with utter disbelief. “Are you insane?! He’ll kill him!” 

Taeyong rolled his eyes, “no, he won’t. He wouldn’t risk it.” 

Yuta scoffed, “yeah, because that stopped him from trying to stab Mark the other night.” 

“He was under orders then. Whatever the consequences were, he’d have people to back him,” Taeyong waved a dismissive hand, “Haechan no longer has that privilege.” 

Everyone was silent, probably contemplating his words, and realising that they did, indeed, hold some sense to them. 

Jisung cleared his throat, turning to Ten, “could you make me some ramen as well?” 

The assassin ruffled his hair, “of course I can.” 

“Oh! Me too!” Doyoung raised a hand.

“No. You can make your own.” 

“Excuse me?!” 

The boss sighed, wrapping his knuckles against the kitchen island, to summon everyone’s attention for the second time in under barely five minutes. “I’m sorry, but your food will have to wait. I need everyone to convene in the briefing room.” 

“New mission?” Yuta asked. 

Taeyong tilted his head to the side, “isn’t it always?”

* * *

Mark stared at the large map laid out before them, covering a good portion of the briefing table. The layout had been sketched hastily, the lines slightly smudged and the annotations abridged. But that barely mattered, as long as the details that did were printed precisely, and he knew they were—Renjun’s skilled hand had never failed them before. 

“The building has two main entrances, but this is the one everyone will be using,” with a red marker, Renjun circled the doorway located at the front of the building, “the back entrance will most likely be closed, but there’s a keypad located outside. As long as our records of access are deleted, entering through there shouldn’t be a problem.” 

All heads turned to their youngest member. 

Jisung nodded, “I can do that.” 

Renjun smiled, “of course you can.” 

“That’d only be a few of us, right? We can’t all come through the back,” Johnny said, gesturing to the lot of them. 

“Those of us who were extended invitations will be entering through the front,” Taeyong said, motioning to the red envelope in Jaemin’s hand. “Hopefully, Mr Yang will be too busy trying to please the masses to notice our members slip into the crowd.” 

“I’m sorry,” Chenle scratched the side of his head, “but what exactly is the objective? You lost me halfway through the rundown.” 

Jisung facepalmed. 

“The objective,” Jaehyun began, his tone laced with a hint of amusement, “is to bust Mr Yang’s drug trafficking ring. A transaction deal is set to take place at the social, and we’re going to intercept it.” 

“I don’t know how he managed it, but Mr Yang has gotten his hands on some of Winwin’s stash.” Yuta frowned while mentioning their narcotics dealer who was currently in China, meeting up with some of their other members for business. “He’s making money off of his work.” 

Taeyong shrugged, “we’re merely taking back what’s ours.” 

“Mr Yang’s ring is solely stolen goods and manipulated substances,” Johnny pointed out, a look of contempt crossing his features, “so while we’re at it, we might as well shut the whole thing down.”

Hums of approval sounded around the table, coming to a collective agreement on the proceedings of the mission, though Mark didn’t doubt that they would—Mr Yang truly was a horrible person. 

“It’s long overdue that he paid for his pilfers,” Taeyong said. 

Mark nodded, his lips quirked into a half-smile, “nothing ever comes for free in the circle.”

* * *

Mark would have loved to dive straight into bed; to allow his aching muscles and stiff bones a reprieve from the day’s toil. But before he could, there was one final problem that had to be dealt with, and this problem was, no doubt, _quite_ problematic. 

“Hello, roommate,” Haechan crooned, the timbre of his voice sugary sweet. If he concentrated hard enough, Mark could taste the syrupy drip of the boy’s words on his tongue, sickening and addictive all at once. 

Mark was a little troubled at the sight before him, not because of the criminal’s presence within his home—he had spent the day mentally and physically preparing himself for the boy’s move in—but because of how _easily_ Haechan seemed to have adapted to the change in circumstance.  


Just the night before, Mark was holding the criminal at gunpoint. 

Currently, said criminal was boiling pasta on his stove. 

What a turn of events. 

“You’ve been out all day?” 

Mark answered with a question of his own, “when’d you arrive?” 

The boy huffed, but didn’t comment on Mark’s blatant disregard of his question. “Around eleven. I thought you’d be home to help me move in, some roommate you are.” 

“You tried to stab me the first night we met.” 

“And you tried to shoot me yesterday,” Haechan smiled wickedly, “an eye for an eye.” 

Mark pulled his sneakers off, ignoring the red head’s snarky reply. 

“Dinner? Oh wait, no. You wouldn’t risk the possibility of me poisoning the food, right, right.” 

He slammed the shoe cabinet shut, “I’m not hungry,” and stalked off to the back of the apartment. 

As soon as he turned the corner, Mark flattened himself against the wall, peeking his head out into the main living area. From his position, he had a clear view of Haechan’s movements within the kitchen. He watched as the boy went about making his food, draining the pasta and pouring the readily made sauce over it.

It took a moment for reality to hit him. Here Mark was, in his own home, spying on his roommate like some aberrant voyeur. 

What had his life come to?

But just as he was going to turn in for the night, deeming the boy harmless—for the time being, anyway—Haechan traipsed over to the lounge room, and slid a red envelope out from between two stacked books on the coffee table. 

In his own pocket, Mark’s invitation left a scorching imprint on the denim of his jeans.

* * *

“Jaemin, please. I’m begging you.” And Jeno was, knelt on the floor with his hands clasped together. “Take off the tie.” 

Jaemin ran his fingers through the soldier’s blue hair, attempting to soothe his boyfriend’s frantic nature. “But why? It goes with my outfit.” 

Jeno cringed, “it’s hot pink.” 

The seductionist frowned, “are you implying that men shouldn’t wear bright colours?”

“I’m _implying_ that you shouldn’t wear a hot pink tie to a formal event!”

Jaemin pulled the boy onto his feet, “you’re cute, but I’m not taking off the tie,” and then leaned in to give him a kiss. 

Jeno shut up after that. 

“Guys! We have a single in the room, don’t be so inconsiderate,” Yuta teased, slinging an arm across Mark’s shoulders. The older boy pinched his cheek and cooed, “single since birth.” 

Mark scrunched his nose, “why am I always the butt of the jokes?” 

“That’s not true,” Yuta wagged a finger in his face, “Doyoung is.” 

And Mark could not deny that, so he remained silent. 

“Alright, everyone, gather around!” Taeyong’s voice resounded through the room. All the members huddled into the lounge area, sitting on whatever pieces of furniture were vacant, and draping themselves across laps when there were no empty spots left. Mark stood leaning against the wall. 

“I know I don’t have to remind you, but I will anyway. Remember the objective, and remember to stay alert. Mr Yang is already cautious of the gang, so unless a diversion is warranted, no attention should be brought to us. Got it?” 

The boss’ orders were acknowledged with a chorus of yeses. 

“Good.”

“And for the love of God, no more broken bones! If I have to set one more arm-,” Taeil scolded, turning in a half-circle so everyone was met with the wrath of his pointed finger, “you will never hear the end of it.”

Mark coughed to stifle a laugh, though some of the others weren’t as shameful. 

“Oh, and one last thing,” Taeyong turned to Jaemin, “I like your tie.”

The dark-haired boy shot the boss a dazzling smile.

* * *

Minutes later, the members were piling into their cars, making their way to Mr Yang’s residence. Jisung and Doyoung remained at the base, their skills required behind the screens of their laptops, and their voices in the members' ears, guiding them throughout the operation. Taeil also stayed behind, prepared to heal any injuries they might come home with, and—worst-case scenario—to possibly save a life. 

Seven of them would be attending as guests; Taeyong, Johnny, Jungwoo, Jeno, Jaemin, and Chenle—Mark included. The remaining three would be led by Jaehyun. Under the caporegime’s direct, they were to sneak in through the back before going their separate ways and fulfilling their personal tasks. 

Though Mark had been doing this since the scant age of fourteen, he’d never tire of the adrenaline rush paired with every mission. Over time, the anxiety had diminished, becoming more of a back thought to the billion others running through his mind. But the thrill never faded, and for that, Mark would always be grateful. 

In the distance, Mr Yang’s manor came into view. 

Taeyong turned to face the boys at the back, craning his neck around the passenger seat's headrest. “You guys ready?” 

Chenle retrieved his revolver from the inside of his suit and pulled the safety off. He grinned. 

“Let’s shoot a bitch.”


	5. Chapter 5

Something was wrong. 

Haechan felt it in his bones; in the way his joints seemed to crack with every bend and snap of his elbows. Or maybe it was in the way his skin burned, while a cool draft blew in from between the crevices of the open windows. But, then again, it was probably just him being dramatic. 

And so he willed himself to ignore the slithering snake up his spine, and placed blame for his goosebumps on the thin dress shirt he had chosen to adorn. 

The hall was filled with people, business associates granted bright futures through a family hand-me-down system—one that made Haechan foolishly conscious of the tarnished uniforms he’d once worn to school—and the sullied souls belonging to members of the circle, too far passed the boundaries separating virtue and sin to be saved, all under one roof. 

But that’s what happened when a businessman dipped his pinky into a scorching cup of crime. It was two very different worlds coming together, resulting in a calamity. 

Haechan just wondered when the man would realise his pinky dripped poison. 

“If it isn’t the one and only!” A gravelly voice sounded behind him, and Haechan sucked in a deep breath. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

He turned to face the source of his vexation, and almost spewed at the repulsive sight before him. Mr Yang was a greying man, with a botched face from one too many surgeries gone wrong—rumour has it he’d been trying to imitate the Lee Jong Suk look—and a horrible set of teeth that almost always accompanied a slimy smile. 

If possible, he looked even worse than the last time Haechan had seen him, and to provide some context, the last time he’d seen Mr Yang, the red-head had had the exact same train of thought.

So, really, it wasn’t hard to surmise that the man truly was a horrific sight. 

“Mr Yang! Who would I be if I were to turn down an invitation from you?” _A happy boy, Haechan, you’d be a happy boy._

“Of course! It wouldn’t be right to host an event like this without you in attendance. After all,” Mr Yang leaned in, and Haechan could smell the heavy liquor on his tongue, “once an indebted man, always an indebted man.” 

Haechan held his fisted hand in the palm of his other, physically holding himself back from swinging at the old geezer. 

“You remember that,” Mr Yang slithered an arm around Haechan’s waist, “don’t you, boy?” 

Oh, he remembered. He remembered _quite_ well. 

Strapped to his waist, Haechan’s knife had never hung so heavily. It scorched his skin, and demanded to be let free of its sheath; to be driven into the blank canvas that was Mr Yang’s chest. He could almost imagine it, the scarlet flower blooming under his shirt, and weeping as Haechan had wept, all those years ago, under the sickening care of the equally sickening man. 

How beautiful the painting would be, a vibrant blossom in a mountain of snow. 

“How could I?” Haechan stepped out of the man’s hold, regarding him at arm’s length, “you never let me forget.” 

He turned on his heel and walked away. 

Haechan felt Mr Yang’s eyes on him. They carved a brand into his skull, letting it be known to others, as well as the young boy himself, that Haechan was _his his his._

Even now, Mr Yang had a hold over him, and realising so was the worst case of reality check Haechan had experienced. If he was wicked, then the man was downright vicious, and no matter the rumours regarding him within the circle, every time he met Mr Yang, Haechan was reminded that he was only ever a charity case, brought back from the brink of death by will of the good samaritan’s hand. 

But what could he do? One seldom ever won in battle against a snake. 

Haechan huffed, and headed for the bar, in need of a shot of courage to get him through the night. He promised himself, it would be just one shot. 

Just one shot. 

One shot. 

Shot. 

Shots.

* * *

It was funny how quickly the tables could turn, especially when narcotics were involved. Because, you see, Yuta was under the impression they were going to intercept a drug deal—short, simple, straight to the point, and most importantly, _not messy._

But, here he was, with a body at his feet, bleeding a slow and painful death, and an incriminating scarlet knife gripped in the palm of his hand. The scene was messy, _really messy._ Yuta wasn’t sure how he was going to get out of this one. 

Thankfully, or not so thankfully—he’d leave that up to interpretation—Yuta had severed comm-links with base before heading into the building. Jisung was wary of the open lines, and had asked Yuta to turn off his comm for the time being, which was totally fine, except he wasn’t sure he could haul a body through the manor without guidance. 

Not for the first time that night, Yuta wished Ten were with him. The assassins were partners in crime—when they weren’t squabbling away their last brain cells, anyway—and he didn’t doubt the Thai boy would have a solution for his current predicament. But Ten was in China, on an assignment to do God knows what, but he probably wasn’t in the midst of attempting to stash a dead body, and for that, Yuta scorned him. 

A knock on the door interrupted his pity party. 

Yuta yelped in panic, not because he was scared of being found—he could swiftly deal with the person in a matter of seconds, adding to the one-man pile at his feet—but because he heard the succession of three knocks, followed by a single thump. It was the gang’s signal of entry. 

His members were going to kill him—ironic, really, considering _he_ was the team’s assassin. 

The door opened, and in walked NCT’s brown-haired caporegime. Jaehyun stared at the tangled mess of limbs sprawled across the floor. Then he stared at Yuta, and Yuta stared back at him. 

There was a lot of staring. 

“It’s not what it looks like.” 

“Sure,” Jaehyun nodded. “I’m gonna walk out, and then I’m gonna come back in, and when I come back in, there won’t be a dead body on the floor. Got it? Got it.” 

Jaehyun walked out, and then he walked in. 

The body stared at him. 

“Yuta,” he began, “why is Mr Yang’s son bleeding out on the floorboards?” 

Yuta cringed, “it was an accident.” 

“I’m sure it fucking was. But how am I supposed to explain this to Taeyong! I don’t know if we were listening to the same orders, but I explicitly remember him saying _not_ to bring any unwarranted attention to the gang,” the caporegime gestured wildly at the corpse, “this seems like something that would bring attention to the gang!” 

“He was talking shit about Winwin! I couldn’t just let him get away with it!” 

“Well how do you suppose we get away with this!” 

Yuta didn’t have an answer. 

“Taeyong is going to kill me,” Jaehyun muttered, pacing the length of the room. 

“You?! You’re not the one who killed the guy.” 

“I’m in charge of this half of the operation! Clearly, my leadership skills have led some of the members _astray_.” 

Yuta huffed, “your leadership skills are fine.” 

“Then why’d you kill him?!” 

“I’m an assassin, that’s what we do!” 

“When you’ve been _asked_ to. Nobody asked you to kill Mr Yang’s son!” 

“Well it’s too late now!” Yuta reached down to grab the body by its arms, “help me.” 

“How are you gonna get rid of it?”

The assassin was practised at discarding bodies, good even—the job kind of entailed it. But he had never accidentally (?) killed someone before, and to make matters worse, it was Mr Yang’s son, and he was in Mr Yang’s home, and someone would definitely notice the heir’s absence. 

“I’m not.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Yuta stared at Jaehyun, dead in the eyes. “We’re gonna dump his corpse at the foot of Mr Yang’s bed.”

“You’re insane.” 

He shrugged, “it’ll be symbolic.” 

Jaehyun bent to sling a limp arm over one of his shoulders, and together they stood, with the body’s dead weight hanging between them. The caporegime nudged the corpse’s head, watching as it lolled to the side. 

“Symbolic, huh?” 

Feet dragging across the floorboards, the cadaver left a trail of blood in its wake.

* * *

Jungwoo watched Jeno from the corner of his eye, which wasn’t strange, considering he was _always_ watching, not necessarily Jeno, but anyone and everyone and anything and everything—Jungwoo was just always watching.

Only a foolish man would take his eyes off the enemy, because one split second was all it’d take for them to whip out a gun, take aim and _bang!_

There your gang member laid, in a pool of crimson death. 

Jungwoo spoke from experience. 

And so, he watched as Jeno made conversation with one of Mr Yang’s men, making sure there was no sudden movement of a hand to a pocket, or to inside a suit jacket, or even a shoe, where a small blade could possibly be hidden. 

Some might call it paranoia, but Jungwoo thought it was simply being cautious.

Something tugged at his sleeve, and Jungwoo had half a mind to ignore it, intent on scrutinising the man Jeno spoke too—he swore he recognised that head of brown hair—but the tugging would not let up, and so he sighed, and turned to acknowledge the source of his disruption. 

To say Jungwoo was deeply dismayed by the sight before him would be an understatement. Because there stood the boy he’d fallen in love with, and who had dropped off the face of the Earth after finding out the engineer’s affiliations with a gang. 

His disappearance had triggered _quite_ the emotional breakdown from Jungwoo. The boy had cried enough tears to fill a fish tank—which Taeyong found came in handy after once forgetting to pay the water bill—and as a result, had sworn off dating men. 

But here he was, a year and some months later, looking every bit the same boy Jungwoo had fallen in love with. 

The gang member wasn’t sure if he should be delighted or upset, or if he should feel anything at all. If Jungwoo genuinely had moved on, his presence shouldn’t have any affect on him, whatsoever. His heart shouldn’t threaten to leap out of his chest, and his hands shouldn’t shake as though his damn skeleton was preparing to hatch. 

“Woo.”

The single utterance broke something within him, and Jungwoo thought that instance was the closest to heaven and hell he’d ever be. How could someone want something so desperately, and yet be burdened by the mere sight of it? It didn’t make any sense, it _couldn’t._

And yet. 

“We need to talk.”

Jungwoo opened his mouth, and then he closed it. He took a long haggard breath. 

_Say something._

“Jungwoo?” Doyoung’s voice travelled through his earpiece, “are you okay? What’s going on?”

He didn’t know himself. 

“After you just up and left me?” Jungwoo was pleasantly surprised by the venom that dripped from his tongue. 

“Let me explain.” 

“Explain what, Lucas?” Saying the boy’s name aloud, after he hadn’t in so long, made Jungwoo ache all over. It was like falling in love again, and being left again—it was like the hurt of Lucas’ leaving had never truly faded. 

Like Jungwoo had never stopped loving him. 

“Explain why I left. I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be, just please, hear me out.” Lucas was desperate, and the sight alone was enough to make Jungwoo almost cave. He’d always been one of NCT’s weakest members. 

“Jungwoo.” Doyoung’s voice brought him out of his head. 

“I can’t do this right now,” Jungwoo shook his head, “I’m sorry.” 

Lucas grasped him by the arm. 

His touch was gentle, as it had always been, but his hands were wary. It was as though Lucas no longer recognised where they stood, and Jungwoo was again reminded of how nothing and yet _everything_ had changed. 

“I’ll look for you,” Lucas said, and his tone left no room for discussion. “I won’t leave again.”  


Jungwoo stared at him, searching for an untruth within the boy’s crystal orbs of visions. In them, he only found his reflection. 

He wondered what a fortune teller might say about that. 

“Jeno’s in position,” Doyoung’s voice sounded in his ear, “you have to go.” 

And go he did. 

Jungwoo hoped Lucas was left wondering if he’d ever come back.

* * *

Mark wasn’t sure what he was meant to be doing. 

His orders were to keep watch of the drug deal’s second party—Changmin, a member from one of the circle’s smaller gangs—and to follow his movements, which would then, in turn, lead Mark to Mr Yang’s son. 

Mark thought it was an absolutely foul decision, on Mr Yang’s part, for allowing his son the handlings of the transaction. The boy was young, naive, and wholly inexperienced, and in the circle, inexperience was the equivalent to attaching a damn death card to your own forehead. 

But on the gang’s part, it was good, _really good_ , because it meant the intercept would proceed smoothly, and the members would get to go home early. 

That is, if Mr Yang’s son would bother to show up. 

He had tailed Changmin to the back of the building, up a flight of stairs, and to a deserted hallway. They had been waiting for a good fifteen minutes now, and still, no sign of the young boy’s presence. 

Mark was getting tired from squatting in the shadows. 

“Um,” Jisung’s voice travelled through his earpiece, “I don’t know what’s happening, but I can’t get in contact with Yuta or Jaehyun.”

He furrowed his brows but didn’t respond. It would be a dead give away if Mark were to start speaking to himself, crouched in the shadows or not. 

The last he’d heard from his fellow caporegime was around an hour ago, when Jaehyun had reported a successful entry through the back. After that, it was radio silence from them. The only people speaking through the main comm-link were Jisung and Doyoung, and a few of the members who had attended as guests. 

“I disconnected their comms because the lines were unstable, but I added them back half an hour ago. Everyone has responded except Jaehyun and Yuta.” 

Jisung was evidently frazzled, and Mark took pity on him—it couldn’t be an easy job, being NCT’s technologist and primary mission aid. But Jisung was good at what he did, and the members trusted him. It didn’t matter that he was the youngest member, there was no one more capable of hacking the system. 

“Guys,” Doyoung’s voice sounded through the link, slow and cautious. An image of a volcano right before its eruption came to Mark’s mind. “There’s been a… change of plans.” 

“Change of plans?” Jisung questioned, and Mark had to bite his tongue to stop himself from reminding them that they were in the same room. 

“Yeah, you see-.”

“Yuta killed Mr Yang’s son,” Taeyong brusquely inserted himself into the conversation. His tone gave nothing away, impassive and emotionless as ever, but Mark didn’t doubt the boss was seemingly peeved at having his orders ignored. “We’re going after Mr Yang instead.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaemin said, “did you just say Yuta _killed_ Mr Yang’s son?” 

“Yes, he killed Mr Yang’s son.”

Sungchan squeaked, “he killed Mr Yang’s son?!”

“Yes! Yes! I did! I killed him! I’m sorry, okay? Let’s move on!” 

And there the assassin was.

“YUTA! YOU’RE ALIVE!” Jisung wailed down the line. Mark winced at the drastic increase in volume. 

“Anyway,” Jaehyun cleared his throat, “we dumped the body by Mr Yang’s bed. I was thinking we should confront the guy in there and, you know… surprise him.” 

“That’s a terrible idea,” Johnny said, “let’s do it.” 

“No.” The boss was not in agreement. Whether out of spite for Jaehyun, or because it genuinely was a bad idea, Mark wasn’t sure—one could never be sure about anything when it came to Taeyong. 

“Yong-,”

“I don’t wanna hear it.” 

“I swear I was gonna tell you!”

“I don’t wanna hear it.” 

“Guys, please,” Johnny interrupted the lovers’ tiff, “take it to the private comms.” Mark could practically _hear_ the underboss rolling his eyes—Ten was definitely rubbing off on him. 

Taeyong sighed, “fine, but let’s make this quick. And also, someone get Chenle away from Mr Yang’s secretary, the poor guy has been stuck in a conversation with him about the weather for the last fifteen minutes.” 

“Jeno and I will go,” Jaemin offered, “babe, where are you?”

“In front of Mr Yang’s office, where I’ve been for the last half hour, because it was where I was _stationed_ , and because I was _ordered_ to slip the key off one of his men. But, you know, plans change.” 

Renjun scoffed, “tell me about it.” 

“Okay! I get it! I get it! I fucked up! But in my defence-.”

Mark would never get to hear the assassin’s defence—though he knew it’d be nothing more than an abysmal excuse, so really, he wasn’t missing out on much—because a sudden crescendo of voices echoed down the hallway, drowning out the meaningless bicker in his ear. Emerging from the top of the staircase was none other than the man himself, Mr Yang, and a very familiar face. 

“You remember the way, don’t you?” The old man sneered, and Mark thought it was the ugliest sight he’d ever seen. 

Beside him, Haechan looked like he was about to throw up. 

Mark leapt out of his hiding spot, wrapped an arm around Changmin’s neck, and pulled the boy towards him. With one hand, he held a gun to the criminal’s head, and with his other, Mark covered his mouth. The command was clear— _don’t make a sound_. 

The boy didn’t dare to even breathe. 

They retreated into the shadows, and watched as Mr Yang led Haechan into what seemed like a small sitting room. 

As the door swung shut, Mark could have sworn the red-head was staring right at him. 

The caporegime removed his hand from Changmin’s mouth, and lifted it to his earpiece. He whispered down the line, “guys, we have two problems.”

He dropped the gun resting against the criminal's temple, and discreetly made for the dagger resting inside his suit jacket. 

Mark felt Changmin relax in the slightest.

He slashed the boy's throat open. 

“Actually, we now only have one problem.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanted to let you guys know that as the story progresses, there will be some more mature themes explored. the descriptions of these themes won't be explicit, but may still be triggering for some people. i will make sure to put a trigger warning at the start of every chapter that details these themes. however, i have chosen not to change the rating to mature as i do not think the descriptions warrant that change. i hope you guys are okay with that, and if not, pls let me know.
> 
> also, my updates have slowed down, and i'm really sorry about that. i started school again a few weeks ago and haven't had as much time to write. i try to get the chapters out as soon as possible but i write and post as i go, so nothing is prewritten.
> 
> anyways, thank you for ur support on the fic. i really appreciate u guys taking the time to read my work.

“Yuta, shut up.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You don’t get to make suggestions, not after the stunt you just pulled.” 

“I swear to God, you make one mistake and suddenly the world is against you.” 

“I’d hardly call murdering someone a _mistake_.” 

“Watch it. Might I remind you that I’m your hyu-.”

“Stop it, both of you.” Taeyong’s voice sounded down the line, sharp and orotund. “You guys are doing my head in.” 

Yuta hissed, but abided by the boss’ orders. 

Doyoung merely scoffed. 

“So…” Sungchan started, his words trailing off into silence. The boy was a new addition to the gang, having only joined a month and some weeks ago. Though he had settled in nicely, Mark could sense a sort of apprehension that lingered around him. Sungchan was hesitant when it came to contributing during group discussions, and Mark didn’t doubt it was because he felt as though he hadn’t fully earned his position as a member yet—as though he still had something to prove. “What do we do?”

The million-dollar question on everyone’s minds. 

Mark had intentions of his own, beginning with the body propped haphazardly against the wall, but he wouldn’t make any movements without the boss’ orders. 

The caporegime seldom ever conferred his loyalty to any - _one_ or - _thing_ , refusing to pledge commitment without a solid cause or rhyme of reason. But from their first meeting, Mark’s allegiance was sworn to Taeyong. The boss held this uncommon capacity for luring people in, and having them lay down their defences, not out of a false sense of security, but out of respect. 

And respect Mark had for Taeyong. A _lot_ of it. 

Given how rowdy all of them were, it was a miracle the boss hadn’t yet ejected himself into outer space, scrambling for an escape from the gang’s maddening orbit. If Mark were in his position, he’d definitely undergo a self-explosion—death of a star and all. 

“Jisung, can you give me a layout of the room?” Taeyong’s question was met with the sound of typing keys. 

The room in question was the one he currently stood outside of, and which Mr Yang and Haechan had disappeared into. Mark had watched as the young criminal was seemingly dragged into what could only be described as his own personal hell, his eyes glazed over in a sort of haunting compliance. 

Mark had never seen the boy so passive before, and it irked him—it irked him _really_ bad. 

“There aren’t any cameras in the room, but I kinda expected as much so I did a scan of the surrounding walls. It isn’t really giving me a lot to work with though, except that it's fairly small, maybe three-point-five metres by six? According to Renjun’s map, the rooms beside it should be a bathroom and office.” 

“I’m guessing not his office, though?”

“Nope, his secretary’s.” 

“Right.” 

As the comm-link lapsed into silence, Mark could hear a faint muttering from within the sitting room. The voice was guttural-sounding, in a way that made his insides scrape harshly against the skin on his outside, and turned the blood in his veins to a scorching heat that rivalled the flame of his lighter. 

He knew it wasn’t Haechan talking, because his mind didn’t spiral into thoughts of sangria red hair and cherry-stained lips. Mark only saw red—bright hot glowing red. 

“Renjun, I’m gonna need you to listen in on their conversation,” Taeyong said, breaking the terse quiet. 

“By listening outside the door? I can go, but Mark’s already there-.”

“No, you won’t be able to make anything out from the hallway. I need you positioned closer to them.” 

“Just give me the order. I’ll do whatever you say, boss.” 

“If I remember correctly, there should be an air vent in the office that connects to one in the room beside it.” 

“...I’ll do whatever you say, except that.” 

Jeno sighed, “Renjun-.”

“Don’t you dare say anything, Lee Jeno. Or else.” Though he was small, Renjun’s threats were never to be taken lightly. Mark knew that, and evidently, so did Jeno, because the soldier never finished his sentence. 

“Why does it always have to be me? Mark is already there! He can shimmy his way through the vents himself!” 

“Because you’ve done a reconnaissance sweep of the manor. You know your way around,” Johnny said. 

“It’s because you’re small, and no one else can fit into the air vents.”

“Doyoung!” 

“I’m just being honest!” 

Renjun huffed, “the absolute slander,” and then he puffed.

And then some minutes later, Mark watched as he stomped up the stairs—though he wasn’t really stomping because that would give himself away, and so to anyone else, it’d look like Renjun was miming a scene from a Cinderella story gone awry. 

As he passed, Renjun imposed a glacial glare onto the caporegime. 

Mark felt the phantom of a great wind against his flesh. 

“Renjun, remember to turn on your body camera so I can see into the room with you,” Jisung said, and received a low hum in response. 

Mark watched from the hallway as Renjun unlatched the golden vent grille, working with a swiftness only someone with experience could procure, and climbed onto the oaken surface of the desk. Using it as leverage to hoist himself into the ventilation shaft, Renjun turned just before disappearing into the seeming tunnel of never-ending. 

The small boy made eye-contact with him, and Mark immediately understood what he was being asked. As Renjun turned to move deeper into the shaft, the caporegime entered the office, sealed the vent’s opening, and closed the door behind him. 

“Renjun has entered the ventilation shaft. I’m gonna switch us to a private comm and leave Doyoung to maintain this line,” Jisung said, the sound of his voice accompanied by a hasty clicking of keys. 

“I’ll leave both of you to it.” 

The technologist promptly disconnected from the main comm-link. 

“As for the rest of us, continue as we were. Whatever we had in mind will have to wait until Renjun gets back to us.” Taeyong’s voice was a breathy whisper down the line. “I’m moving towards Mr Yang’s office. Is anyone closeby? First floor, left-wing, two hallways down from where the gathering is.” 

“I am,” Jungwoo said, “do you want me to meet you there?” 

“Yes, and be discreet.”

“Give me five minutes.” 

The boss made a sound of acknowledgement. 

Mark thought it was an appropriate time to address the issue resting against the wall. “What do I do with Changmin’s body?”

The caporegime wasn’t sure who, but someone scoffed as though they had a lego piece stuck down their throat—Mark was willing to bet his left kidney it was Doyoung. 

“To think, this was supposed to be a simple drug deal intercept,” Johnny let out a haggard sigh, “and we’ve still managed to end up with two dead bodies.” 

“At least they’re not ours.” 

Taeyong cleared his throat. “Yuta, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“On it.” 

“Mark, I want you to keep an eye on Haechan. If he comes out, follow him. Leave Yuta to deal with Changmin.” 

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Good.” 

“Boss,” Jaemin’s voice filtered through the line, “we got Chenle.” 

On cue, a piercing screech echoed in Mark’s ear. “You guys won’t _believe_ the conversation I just had about atmospheric pressure.”

* * *

Haechan was not a hater. Sure, he had a strong detest for certain things, or say, certain people, but he did not _hate_. Haechan liked to think his agenda was one of nonchalance and insouciance, and to be hateful meant exerting a great deal of energy, as well as an extent of care. So, simply put, he did not hate because it did not fit into his agenda. 

But he hated Mr Yang. 

He hated him enough to want to put a gun to his head, and play God. 

When he closed his eyes at night, Haechan could not escape the man’s crooked smile. It was all pointed fangs, and blood-red tongue, and a sinister upturn at the corners when he laughed. And when he laughed, the sound became a ceaseless mantra, fallen from the devil’s lips, and unbidden in its ascension to Haechan’s mind. 

Mr Yang followed him, into his dreams where the laughter finally stopped, and into his nightmares where the sound only crescendoed, forming a weeping orchestral piece. 

“Why don’t you sit down, boy? Let me pour you a cup.” 

To hell if Haechan would sit and play tea party. 

He remained by the door, one foot planted flat on the carpet in case of a fight, and the other on its toes, prepared for flight. “No thank you, I’m fine standing.”

The man chuckled, and gave a deriding shake of his head. “You know, you’ve made quite the name for yourself. Imagine my surprise when I’d found out someone had single-handedly murdered TBZ’s leader.” He turned to Haechan, his eyes a shadowed pitch black. “And then I found out it was you, my brother’s cowardly son.” 

Haechan bit his tongue.

“But of course, you’re not so gutless anymore,” Mr Yang smiled a sickening smile, “though I guess you never were.” 

His words formed a weighted rock in Haechan’s stomach, and he felt himself sinking with every strained intake of breath. 

Mr Yang leant forward to pour himself a cup of tea, and the liquid rushed out of the pot a stream of murky green. Haechan knew he liked his tea bitter, and so it rarely looked anything less than opaque in colour. 

“You’ve grown into a fine young man, Lee Haechan, and maybe I was too quick to judge you.”

“Thank you?” 

Mr Yang fixed him with a pointed look. “I’m here to offer you a proposition.” 

As if it were a reflex, the word _no_ formed on the tip of his tongue, and Haechan felt it roll off with a ferocity he did not intend to exercise. 

“No?” Mr Yang raised a single leaden eyebrow, challenging Haechan’s response. 

He swallowed, “I have no interest in your affairs.” 

“And why is that?”

“I ran away for a reason.” 

Though not a direct answer to Mr Yang’s question, the statement conveyed a dozen untold truths. Haechan _had_ run away, because otherwise, he would have remained prisoner to his own skin, held hostage by the phantom of a serpentine coil, wrapped around his neck, and depriving him of air. 

But Mr Yang had never appreciated his candour, and a torrential reunion was not going to change that. 

He _felt_ the man nearing before he heard him. Steps silent but mien deadly, Mr Yang crept upon Haechan like a predator would its prey, before attacking with a precipitous bite—venomous like a cup of laced tea. 

A serious case of déjà vu washed over him as he prepared himself for his imminent drowning. 

The palm of Mr Yang’s hand came to slap him hard across the face, and Haechan felt himself losing anchor. 

Then there were hands grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, and he was forcibly yanked above surface. He was met with the sight of Mr Yang’s face—the face of both his killer, and his saviour. Had he been in a better frame of mind, Haechan would have laughed himself silly. 

“I took you in and gave you everything, but you still chose to run away. Why is that, I wonder? Is it because every time you look at me, you see your father?” 

At the mention of his father, Haechan froze. “I don’t want to talk about him.” 

“Why? You don’t like being reminded that he’s _dead_ , is that it?” 

“I said, I don’t want to talk about him.”

“You ungrateful bastard. You’re every bit your father’s son, and it shows-.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Haechan had the man shoved up against the wall, with a force hard enough to make the door rattle on its hinges. For a single second, Mr Yang’s features morphed into a look of stun, and Haechan felt a surge of gratification pulse through him. But he blinked, and gone was the man’s surprise, in its place a virulent scowl. 

“Remember your place, Lee Haechan,” the man spat in his face, “remember what _you_ did.” 

The eyes that glowered at him were his father’s, and Haechan stumbled back, arms going to his sides and the fight leaving his body. He clenched his jaw, and steeled a glare on Mr Yang. “What’s your proposition?” 

The old man smiled triumphantly. “There is a boy I want, from Macau. His name is Huang Guanheng, and he is supposedly one of the best sharpshooters the circle has seen.”

“One of the youngest too, I presume.” 

Mr Yang’s expression soured, a nasty twang to his grimace, and an odious twitching of his left eye. “You will go to China, and bring me back the boy.” 

“And if he doesn’t want to come back with me?”

“Then that is your problem to deal with.” 

“Superb,” Haechan said, his tone deadpan. 

“Just make sure he gets here, won’t you?” Mr Yang placed a hand upon the doorknob, before turning to him, and appraising Haechan with a taunting smile. “Until then, my dearest nephew,” and he left, shutting the door behind him with a definite click, and leaving no room for question or argument. 

Haechan huffed. 

He would go to Macau, alright, but he would not bring the boy back to Mr Yang—he refused to allow the man another plaything to delight his idle days. 

“You can come down from there,” Haechan said, raising his head towards the air vent. 

For a moment, nothing happened. And then the grille popped open, and a mop of brown hair emerged from the ventilation shaft. The boy narrowed his eyes at Haechan. “How long have you known I was here?” 

“Long enough.” 

“You’re not going to shoot me?” 

Haechan shrugged.

The brunet slid out of his hiding spot, and made the jump down to the floor. He dusted his hands on the sides of his pants, before raising a finger to his ear. “Mark, could you come in, please?” 

A moment later, the door swung open, revealing the caporegime stood in the entrance to the room. Mark flitted his eyes from the boy, and back to Haechan. “What’s going on?” 

Haechan laughed. “Say, Mark, have you ever been to Macau?” 

The blond-haired boy opened his mouth in reply, before promptly shutting it closed again. Both he and his fellow member seemed to pause, bringing a hand to their ears and listening to whoever spoke to them on the other end of their line. 

They exchanged a cagey look, before turning to face him. 

The smaller boy spoke slowly, “if you value your life, you will follow us.” 

Haechan scoffed, “is that a threat?”

“No, a genuine warning.” 

“Oh?”

Then, he heard the sound of a ringing gunshot from elsewhere in the manor, followed by the arising hysteria in the main hall, where all the guests were collectively gathered. 

He scrutinised the two gang members with an accusing glare. “What did you do?”

Mark whipped out his gun, and took the safety off it. “Does it matter?”

Haechan sighed, “I suppose not,” and then he followed them out the door. 

He followed them through the winding hallways and empty living rooms, and through the frantic crowd of businessmen and women who had probably never held a gun in their lives, and passed the flying bullets aimed at NCT members, all trying to make their escape whilst keeping clear of Mr Yang’s men, and to their cars, parked outside and awaiting their getaway. 

Mark shoved Haechan into the back of a black car, before moving to sit in the front. A body slid in next to him with a forceful ram to his side, and the car was whizzing off. 

“Phew, that was close,” the boy beside him spoke. Then he turned in Haechan’s direction, and let out a scream. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!” 

Mark sighed, “Chenle, please.”

“But, what-?!”

“You missed some things while you were talking to Mr Yang’s secretary.”

Chenle shook his head. “I haven’t missed an episode, I’ve missed the whole entire season.” 

Haechan sighed, _what in God’s name was he doing here?_


End file.
